March 27, 2009

While I was offline last weekend, a
parolee in Oakland shot four policemen to death before getting killed
in his apartment. MacArthur Boulevard and 70th Avenue, thirty-five
blocks from my house. I was oblivious because I didn't even turn on
the radio or television all Sunday.

I started this blog in 2004 because
of a vision I had at the beginning of the Iraq war, April 2003. It
was spring in California and we were visiting the Central Coast.
Orange poppies bloomed on the hillsides. Our San Luis Obispo hotel
was empty except for scores of middle-aged Army reserve officers who
drove up in their mini-vans and family cars, wearing shorts, khakis
or jeans. They changed into military uniforms and drove off to a nearby
Army camp.

In the evenings when they returned
from training, there was a feeling of camaraderie in the air. TVs
in the lobby and bar blared Fox news. One middle-aged guy, thin and fit, with
the face of a dentist, paraded around in a teeshirt blaring FDNY:
NEVER FORGET. He was going to avenge the dead New York City
firefighters of 9/11/01. To do this, he was going to rehearse for
battle in the gentle hills of the Gold Coast of California, among old
cattle ranches and new vineyards; he was then going to ship out to
Iraq and kill some terrorists. He, like the other officers, smiled
kindly at my toddler boys, petted them, beamed at us. Our young
family was the reason for their effort, in their minds. I guessed that seeing us,
they thought of their own families left behind in suburbs all over
California.

They didn't know and I didn't tell
them that I am an Arab-American and against the invasion of Iraq. I
believed they were going to war for a lie and I didn't want them to
kill Iraqis.

Those officers didn't know and I didn't tell them that I had lived
in sight of the World Trade Center for many years, that I saw the
lights go dark the night it was bombed for the first time in '93; nor
did these suburban officers know that I had grown up in the shadow of
Mieh-Mieh refugee camp, haven of revolutionary Palestinians and later
revolutionary Islamists, that some of those fighters had killed my
grandmother and sacked my village in 1985. Those American warriors
didn't know that I had witnessed more destruction already than any of
their families ever would.

I did not tell them on the patio at
evening barbecue dinners that I thought their cause was a mistake. My
toddlers ate hot dogs and ran around the pool fence, accepting
caresses from men with short hair and smooth faces, men who looked
like accountants, real estate agents, building contractors. I felt
horror at what was happening in Iraq and what I feared would come.
And I felt compassion for these men who thought they were going to
face death, who thought they were sacrificing themselves for their
country and for my children. They believed they were avenging the
deaths of September 11, 2001.

Later that week my family drove to a
gorgeous public state beach west of San Luis Obispo: Montana de Oro,
Mountain of Gold. The name derives from the orange-yellow poppies
that blanket its hillsides in spring. Sitting on the sand, watching
the enormous blue ocean at mid-day, I felt utter peace. War throbbed
on television, in the hills to the north of me, and over Iraq, but
where I was, all was calm. I knew in that moment that there were
places in Iraq, too, that were just that peaceful, right then. No
matter what bombs, guns, explosions, tanks, fighter jets disturb the
peace, somewhere there is always a center of silence. That center
might be deep inside a woman's heart. It might be at a fountain in
the heart of an old mosque. It might be in a date palm grove
abandoned to birds, mice and the wind. I felt kinship with and solace
from the sand and the sun and the ocean, and I told myself - this is
the true reality. Whatever the warriors and fighters are doing, they
are simply mistaken, and their wars and their dramas are not the only
reality. This peace is here, it is unending, and it is real.

Now it is morning in Oakland. I took
a walk around nine a.m., down to MacArthur Boulevard and along the
street for a few blocks, to 39th Avenue. Nothing was happening. A man
in an orange vest swept trash from the sidewalks. A gentleman in a
nice suit parked at the KFC and went into the funky coffee place,
greeted a lady in high heels and business dress; we were old, young,
middle-aged, black, white, Asian and mixed race, all in the cafe
drinking tea or cappucino. On the way home, my neighbor was pulling
weeds in the front yard and happily gave me a sack full of lemons and
a few heirloom Chinese snow peas. Birds sang, sun shone.

The sun is still shining but the
police helicopters have come out now, an hour later. I presume they
are hovering over the funeral procession that will wind its way from
the murder site two miles from me, down to the enormous coliseum
whose lights can be seen from our upstairs on summer nights. Police
officers from around the country are making their way to the arena,
along with the governor, the mayor, presumably a senator or two. Some
of the helicopters will be news reporters; the national press has
been covering this tragedy.

In the last week Oakland's email
lists and comment posts have been full of people raging at the
violence. A common exchange: one person asks for prayers for all the
victims of violence, and prayers for the murderer too; then another
person demands to know why the first person is not lauding the dead
policemen to the stars, and does she feel as much sadness for the
murderer as for the officers? Where is the outrage? Then the two
parties argue about whether it's right to say any word of blessing at
all for the dead man who killed all those people. He was suspected of
several terrible rapes. Why does his family say they still love him?
Why do the black radicals call him brother and a resister? They are
horrible people.

Another line of comment runs like
this: those people in East Oakland are scum and should be
exterminated, cleaned up, wiped out. This sentiment is expressed
repeatedly in the comments section of the newspaper, or in email
listserves.

I am reminded of the days and years
after 9/11, when we heard frantic calls for extermination, for
cleaning out terrorists. "Let's make Asia a glass parking lot," a woman said to my mother. "Just bomb them all, I am sick of this."

There was also the
summer of 2007, when men inside of Nahr-al-Bared refugee camp in
North Lebanon attacked a Lebanese military post, killing several
soldiers in their beds. My own relatives had in-laws stationed at
that post, and I heard rumblings of the usual: exterminate them, wipe
them out. The Lebanese army did indeed flatten Nahr-al-Bared,
rendering tens of thousands of people homeless. Many innocent
civilians were killed or wounded, lives were disrupted. For what? The
murderers of Nahr-al-Bared were generally known to be outsiders. But
all the people of Nahr-al-Bared suffered. If I spoke in the blog or
among my Lebanese villagers of the travails of the stateless refugee,
if I mentioned poverty and the hopelessness of the refugee situation,
I was accused of being soft on terror, of enabling lawlessness and
massacre. I shut up.

Responding to violence with more
hatred and violence just keeps the karmic wheel turning. I got off
that wheel. Here in East Oakland the sounds of children playing at
recess float in my window. Below the window, the rose bush puts up
new buds even though the gardener clipped it severely a month ago. In
Mieh-Mieh right now I am sure my uncles are dozing on the balconies
or playing cards with their friends, and when the sun comes up, what
few songbirds survive will flit about the olive groves, heedless of
the conflicts roiling inside Mieh-Mieh camp.

Peace is always available. Peace is
always here. Mourn the dead, but work for justice for the living.
Poverty creates drug addiction, despair and violence. We don't know
exactly why that man snapped and killed all those policemen, but we
know that our communities are deeply wounded; nevertheless some of
our children survive. I know children who grow up on those very
streets where the policemen died last Saturday. They attend school
with my sons. Their parents and grandparents work and tend to them
and do their best to raise them well and give them what they need.

Violence does well up and threaten
to overwhelm us, whether in Oakland, New York, or South Lebanon. But
we don't have to give into it. We don't have to believe in the drama.
We don't have to let our neighbors incite us into mob action, or
massive wars of retaliation. We can keep tending our gardens, sending
our children to school, cooking dinner, converging in places of
worship or meditation or rest. If religions fail us then we can go to
the ocean and gaze upon her vastness. Peace is here. It never went
away. All we need to reach it is stop shouting and listen.

May the souls of the dead rest in
serenity, and may the hearts of the living be comforted in their
loss. And may the poor and the suffering find justice and harmony.
May our wounded cities be healed. I love Oakland, and I love
Mieh-Mieh, and I affirm that beauty and love triumph in both places.

My city gets a lot of bad press, but you should have been with me on my walk this morning. Pouring sunshine, neighbors and postman exchanging smiles and greetings, birds, flowers, hills, bay. There's an Ethiopian church by the highway, and I met the priest on my walk, conversed with him in Arabic.

Last Saturday ladies from my neighborhood got together and made orange marmalade and preserved lemons from fruit we'd collected for free. The citrus is just falling off trees, and total strangers offer each other grocery bags full of excellent oranges. My son and I collected some from a lady we've met on our walks from school.

The Parks Dept. has to close its facilities one day a month, due to budget cuts, so that means my children are home instead of going to after school. Because my health is better and we want to save a little money, we are also pulling each son out of after-school one day a week. The boys are thriving with the extra attention.

The public schools keep running family nights, so we have plenty of free entertainment in community with our children's schoolmates. Our beaches, hills, and walkable urban neighborhoods are still there for us to enjoy. We are fortunate to live near friends and relatives.

Maybe if we'd lost our house, job or both, we'd be feeling differently. Maybe climate change and economic collapse mean that civilization is about to end. But you know what? None of that is happening today. And I'll bet that whatever is happening for you today, you aren't living in a car, you aren't hungry, and you probably don't have to have chemo or a liver biopsy. (I've had both - 33 infusions of chemo in 2007-08) So count your blessings and enjoy your breathing.

Tango Milonga party at Lake Merritt, Oakland, CA. There's always a good reason to dance.

March 02, 2009

Whenever I get in a panic about climate change, economic collapse, or peak oil, I refer to "the Zombies" as shorthand for the worst-case societal collapse scenario. As depicted in some bad movie, or a scene from Cormac McCarthy's The Road, the desperate bad guys turn into zombies who over-run our cities and destroy our children before our eyes.

The latest drought warnings had me awake one night. That's it, I thought, the collapse is upon us, my children will get eaten by the zombies and I am too weak to protect them.

I can usually count on friend and reader Alison C. to provide some reassuring good sense online. My husband is another stabilizing force, offline.

Today the Los Angeles Times adds some context. It appears that the folk who want to circumvent environmental laws are the ones shouting loudest about this so-called worst-ever drought. They want to build canals and siphon even more water away from our rivers - damn the fish. However, the drought is not actually the worst ever, and this month's rain is making it better.

Of course we need to behave sensibly about our water. Let's hope L.A. isn't just trying to get out of changing its ways around water use. I am willing to reorganize our life to cope. I would install a graywater system. I would consider a compost toilet. I would research a cistern to capture run-off for summer watering needs.

As a state, we should reconsider growing cotton and almonds in the desert.

Alison suggests I read Cadillac Desert. She says the first chapter is bombast but the rest is a very good explanation of the whole agriculture, water project and fish nexus in our state.

The zombies are not going to roam the streets of Oakland, drinking blood for lack of water. Not this year.

February 27, 2009

I've been blogging for more than five years at Dove's Eye View. You can see a list of my favorite recipes on the sidebar, but I've never bothered to collect my favorite posts. Herewith a few I remember or that were called to my attention:

Dang, a bunch of heavy stuff. In fact I *think* I have a pretty good sense of humor, with a strong touch of the gallows and chemo lounge. If you can't laugh on the cancer ward, you can't really laugh. However, it doesn't much show on the blog, does it? I will work on this.

There was that post during the Lebanon war, 2006, documenting Lebanese war jokes...

And of course the unofficial subtitle of the blog is: "when there's no hope left, you can always make dinner."

Good thing my beloved husband was a comic in his earlier life. He still mugs and cracks jokes, keeping the atmosphere light.

UPDATE long time reader John Ballard of Hootsbuddy reminds me of the positive message in Hello Kind World. He even linked to that one last October. Thanks for the reminder John. I do have chemo brain and I have forgotten much of what I've written in the last five years.

February 12, 2009

I'm twittering random links, none of which have to do with the Middle East. I do have other interests (although reading Bolano's 2666 makes me think I need to write Gaza 2006 into this novel, along with Ain el-Hilweh 1982)

Not linked: Family storytelling night at my kid's public school. Hokey magic show, free pizza and raw veggies and juice, book giveaways. The kids were SO EXCITED. I really savor these simple down-home pleasures with the children at the public schools: the fall harvest festival with goofy games and costumes, the winter concerts with singing and poems, these family nights.

Writing group after storytelling (I didn't bring my kids, natch). We finished talking about Bolano's 2666, then read to each other from our latest work. Our host made a Mediterranean soup with feta cheese; others brought bread, salad, cheese and fruit. And CHOCOLATE. I am so fortunate.

February 06, 2009

I was not starry-eyed about President Obama's election; I was concerned about whether he would do anything to bring justice to the Palestinians and a real and lasting peace to the Eastern Mediterranean. I try not to make negative predictions about the future, but I lost some hope, yes I did, after the horror of Israel's assault on Gaza of 2008-2009.

Jewish Voice For Peace does hope to pressure President Obama for peace and justice. They ask you to sign their petition to him. I believe JVP and similar organizations are our best hope for effecting any kind of change on United States Foreign Policy. If you feel moved, please sign and forward.

Download the PDF file of the Palestinian woman above if you want to print this image as a poster.

February 03, 2009

Yesterday Phil Weiss posted a report from Jeffrey Blankfort that recounted the devastation of Ain al-Hilweh during Israel's war on Lebanon in June, 1982. That invasion was one of the biggest crises of my life, and I sent Weiss a strong note about it, which he asked me turn into a post:

January 09, 2009

One of my hasbara commenters urges me to log off and shut up, because I am not the Arab Everywoman. I am interested in this characterization. It never occurred to me to play the Arab Everywoman, since I consider myself an American first, and know that no Arab national would see me as entitled to claim such a role. However, the people who are flooding blog world with comments, argument, invective, fake concern, and veiled threats must see my blog as such a voice.

I am honored. When my father learned from an informant that the Anti-Defamation League had listed him in their database as a PLO member, he said he, too was honored. (This was in the 70s, before Palestinian militiamen attacked our village and killed my grandmother). He said he could not be a member of the PLO since he was a Lebanese, not a Palestinian, but if the ADL thought he was, then he was doing something right. What he was doing was going to meetings in Peoria, Illinois and speaking for the rights of the Palestinians.

Speaking the truth can be dangerous when it contradicts the lies of the powerful.

This blog does not matter that much in the scheme of things; but I think somebody is very scared if they are tracking the likes of me. The clock is ticking...

"The liberation from fear (after Israel left Lebanon in 2000) was an important turning point in the lives of the Arabs. We are not scared any more. They may kill us and kill our children and we will not be scared anymore. Only angrier.

We also liberated ourselves from shame. We used to walk with our heads down and hide behind our powerlessness to avoid taking action. We were subdued. We blamed ourselves. We did not have faith. We despised ourselves and all the Arabs. We wanted to be something else, someone else. Now, we want to be ourselves. They can kill us, they can kill our children, and they can destroy all the buildings and all the schools. They cannot kill our spirit anymore.

And we also liberated ourselves from the West. It used to matter so much to us: we were always seeking the West’s approval. If their media said that we should make peace on Israeli terms, we parroted them and believed it. We wanted the West’s endorsement, as if this endorsement made us a little bit like them. We were always ready to change our course, to change our beliefs in order to appear like them, in order to please the writers on CNN and BBC and Time and Newsweek. We wanted them to think of us as “civilized”. And when they did not see the injustice in what the Israelis did, we did not see it either. They called us backwards and we called ourselves backwards.

Now we don’t care anymore. We know we are right. We know they are ignorant, superficial and self-centered. We know they change their opinions everyday. We know they would always find something wrong with us, unless we become subservient, submissive and docile.
Now we are strong.

Their blows cannot hurt us. Do you see all these little children torn to pieces by Israeli bombs? They are not dead: each one of them has given life to a hundred, a thousand, a million partisan who will continue the struggle.”

Cookbooks

Deborah Madison: Vegetarian Cooking for EveryoneIndispensable - I use it all the time, and give it as presents to brides, young people starting out, etc. Not for vegetarians only - hence the title - a great resource for anybody wanting delicious recipes for vegetables, grains and legumes. Great sauces and salads, too.